I Choose You
by the'nvisiblegirl
Summary: [On AO3 as "there was a time when I would have believed them if they told me that you could not come true"] Regina is in love with Emma, but Emma is getting married to Hook. Then Emma turns up at Regina's door at 4AM on her wedding night...


Okay y'all, that wedding was just... no. I think we can all agree. I wrote this in about three hours because I have so many feelings about the train wreck and waste of potential that is Once Upon a Time. Emma and Regina should have been endgame, and I still cannot believe how unbelievably stupid Adam and Eddy were in not realizing the amazing love story they have written "unintentionally."

This story ignores the curse that hit right after the wedding because for real, another curse? Groundbreaking. (Not.)

The title comes from Sara Bareilles' song "I Choose You."

* * *

The moment you see her at the end of the aisle, your breath catches in your throat. She looks so unlike herself, unlike the Emma Swan you know, in her white dress that seems like she wrestled it right off Grace Kelly, that, for a moment, you can bask in the illusion that the woman in front of you is not really her. The smile on your face is fake, too big, too bright. This isn't how the story is supposed to end, you pining for a woman marrying a man who, all things considered, is about as much of a villain as you are—were—but, while you are left alone, heartbroken, he gets it all.

You realized that you are, in fact, in love with Emma Swan all those years ago during a tearful goodbye at the town line when you gave her and Henry good memories, when you sent them away to save them, even when all you wanted was to be selfish and go with them, make new memories together. You didn't exactly forget about your feelings after that, how could you, it just never seemed the right time to give them proper thought (or, God forbid, act on them) between your soulmate making a sudden reappearance, the villain of the week demanding attention, and whatever Emma and her pirate were doing. So, really, you kind of deserve this right now, deserve to sit here and watch the woman who might very well be your true love marry a man that seems to get everything you have to fight for so hard without any effort at all.

You startle slightly when you feel a warm hand in your own, but then you realize it's only Henry, who is looking at you like he knows exactly what is going on in your head right now. For all you know he might really do, the perceptive, smart young man that he is. You give him a smile you hope communicates "everything is fine" (when it's really not) and squeeze his hand, while Emma and the pirate say their vows. It's good to hold on to something, to ground yourself, because your ears are ringing and you feel a little queasy, unable to shake off the sense that you should do something, that you should stop this. But, then, what right do you have to do that? What right do you have to question Emma's decisions, to be so very selfish?

The ceremony is over in a blur, and you clap way too enthusiastically, considering that all you really want to do right now is go home and cry. You didn't expect it to be quite this painful because you've had years getting used to the idea that Emma and you were never going to happen, in this realm or any other. Maybe it's what you deserve after everything you've done, to be in love with a woman who is the daughter of your enemy, a woman whose life you ruined, who saved you by giving you a reason to hold on, by giving you Henry. There's pictures of the three of you, smiling, huddling close together, and it looks so much like family, like happy ending, that you cannot look at them without tearing up.

You sit through the reception without really talking to any of the people around you, even though Snow tries to strike up a conversation with you several times. Eventually, she just sighs and gives you this look, as if she knows about your feelings for her daughter. You don't even care anymore, aren't afraid she is going to tell your secret, because it wouldn't change a thing, anyway. The food on your plate has long gone cold at this point, but you keep picking at it just so you have something to do. Every now and then you feel eyes on you, and when you look up, it's always Emma, staring at you with an unreadable expression on her face that makes your skin crawl. After the eighth time, you excuse yourself from the table and seek refuge in the bathroom. You know that Emma can't follow you without causing a scene, and you are comforted by the certainty of solitude.

At some point, Henry sends you a text asking if you're ok. You can hear muffled music through the bathroom door, so they must have started with the dancing, and you reply that you have a migraine and decided to go home before you poof out of the bathroom in a cloud of purple smoke.

* * *

You wake up with a start when you hear a persistent banging noise that must come from the front door. It takes you a second to figure out that you're in your study, where you had a few drinks earlier in order to drown your sorrows, and apparently fell asleep on the couch. It must be the middle of the night, but the banging doesn't stop, so you get up. It is indeed coming from the front door, so, without turning on the light, you tear it open, ready to give whoever is causing this ridiculous ruckus a piece of your mind. However, you choke on your own words once you see the person standing in front of you. _Emma._

She's in a thin white robe that you've never seen before, hair up in a messy pony tail, and traces of make up still visible on her face. She looks miserable. "What time is it," you ask eventually. Emma shrugs. "I don't know. Like, 4AM, maybe." You sigh, waiting for the other woman to explain what the hell she is doing here. Instead of saying anything, however, Emma looks away. You follow her gaze down toward the ground; her feet are bare.

It takes her several more moments to say something else, but then she whispers, "I fucked up." You still don't know what that is supposed to mean, and, more importantly, why that warrants turning up here in the middle of the night. But you don't have the energy to demand answers, to push Emma, so instead you do something that you would never do in any even remotely normal situation: you sit down on the one step that leads up to your door and lean against the pillar next to you. You're exhausted, and emotional, and probably still kind of drunk, and the woman you're in love with turned up at your house in the middle of her wedding night.

"Regina," the blonde says softly, taking a step closer, but you can't bring yourself to look at her. She sits down beside you, so close that your thighs almost touch, and after taking one deep, shuddering breath, she finally explains herself: "I shouldn't have married him. I don't even know what I was _thinking_ , but Snow was so happy, and he cares about me so much, and you… you weren't an option, so I just… fuck." Your head whips around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. " _What?_ " She looks at you then, and you can see she cried, too, that she might actually be serious about this. "I don't even love him," she says, and you want to laugh and cry at the same time. _Idiot_.

She scoots closer, then, so your bodies are touching toes, to thighs, to shoulders, and takes your hand. "What are your feelings on divorcées?" On her face is that lopsided grin that you would find irritating on pretty much anyone else, but find positively endearing on her. "That depends," you reply, because you're still afraid you might be interpreting this all wrong, that Emma isn't actually saying what you think she is saying. "On what," she asks, smile faltering slightly. "On how they feel about reformed Evil Queens with enough emotional baggage to fill the hole in the ozone layer." And it's like the sun rises right on Emma's face in the middle of a chilly Saturday night. She laughs, and you can hear the tears threatening to fall. "I'm pretty sure they're in love with them."

You kiss her then, sitting on the floor in front of your house, and she reciprocates immediately. It's messy, and desperate, and so perfect that you almost miss the surge of magic radiating from the two of you. She breaks the kiss, breathless, forehead resting against yours. "Was that… are we…," she stammers, and you hum in confirmation before you go in for another kiss.


End file.
